


Father of Mine

by Alcoholic_kangaroo



Category: Death Note (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Incest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-03-28
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:27:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23309134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alcoholic_kangaroo/pseuds/Alcoholic_kangaroo
Summary: All L had to do was provide a semen sample and his job in the entire experience would be complete. As long as he was not expected to have any part in a child’s upbringing then it really did not impact him.
Relationships: L/Near | Nate River
Comments: 32
Kudos: 39





	1. Daddy Gave Me a Name

**Author's Note:**

> Just a short oneshot. I'm kinda stuck on my other fic right now and needed to write something else. Not saying I might not write another chapter on this someday but for now it's a oneshot.

It had been Watari’s idea. To a young L, the idea of procuring a successor never crossed his mind. Solving crimes was a hobby for him, not a requirement, and if he were to die unexpectedly then what did it matter to him what happened to the world following his demise? He was perfectly happy allowing his accumulated fortune to be distributed back to the needy – orphanages like he had been raised in, perhaps. Or schools for gifted children.

Watari had other ideas. He bid farewell to the home within which L had grown and founded Wammy’s House, a special orphanage for special children, and informed L that he planned on grooming a successor in case something were to happen to him. L, not particularly invested, gave his approval for Watari to withdrawal some of his earnings from one of his many accounts and establish a fund for the orphanage but otherwise paid little attention to the other man’s endeavor. He had his own distractions.

Except, just a short while later, Watari approached him again with another request.

“I have located several children who fit the criteria but of course we will not know if they are suitable heirs until they have grown. In the meantime, I have been considering if it would not be prudent for you to perhaps produce your own heir, as a possible alternative to the current plan?”

His own heir?

L had been sixteen at the time and he had been a virgin. It was not that he was particularly uncomfortable with the idea of sexuality, but the idea of reproduction was an entirely different matter. He did not see the advantage of reproducing, especially as a teenager himself.

But Watari promised he would take care of all the details. He would locate an appropriate surrogate. He would make sure the child was healthy and thrived. He would make sure there were no complications. All L had to do was provide a semen sample and his job in the entire experience would be complete.

Uneasy over the prospect, L asked for a few days. But in the end, he relented. As long as he was not expected to have any part in a child’s upbringing then it really did not impact him.

He should have delved deeper into the plans for his child.

Wammy’s House became L’s on and off residence. He kept a room there though rarely visited it. Still, it was his listed residence for his accounts and where he and Watari returned for holidays and occasional rest. The children there were well-behaved and courteous to L. They did not know who he was. He was introduced as Ryuzaki by Roger, the headmaster of the orphanage and an old friend of Watari’s, and the children were only informed that he was a special guest they should show respect.

There were so few of them and they were so quiet. L’s childhood home had been nothing like this clean, empty old house with the hardwood floors that echoed when one walked across them. His orphanage had been messy with linoleum floors and toys crowding every corner and corridor. There was almost always a child screaming or crying somewhere and the sounds of a television had always been audible. Every Sunday there had been church services and loud bells.

Wammy’s House never had such bells. There was no God at Wammy’s House.

There were no loud noises in Wammy’s House at all. There was no television or radios. There were computers with video games, but they were difficult, puzzle-based games that relied on logic and study. Instead of a playroom there was a library.

It was a nice place to live and L believes he would have been happy there as a child, but he was not sure if that could be said of these children. Perhaps the silence and the tinted window and the solemn way they walked around each other in the hallways was not the best atmosphere for a growing child.

But L did not say anything. It was no concern of his how these children were raised. They could be worse off. They could be with their original parents or some awful foster parents being beaten, abused, raped. They could be in an overcrowded home, shoved four to a bedroom, subsiding on generic macaroni and cheese and reading outdated textbooks. They all seemed clean and well-cared for, so L just sat in his room and looked through some old files and waited for the next case to catch his eye. Watari drank tea with Roger in the well-groomed yard and watched the children study and play their puzzle games together while the weather was nice.

It was early autumn and the leaves were just starting to fall.

One day, L waited until the children were back at their studies before he joined Watari outside. The air was beginning to crisp and the smell of musty leaves was in the air. Watari stood up to button his jacket for him, warning him he would catch a cold outside in his bare feet even though he knew L rarely ever caught a cold. Then he rang the bell to call the maid for more tea.

What the maid was carrying left L feeling caught off balance. A rarity for him. He hated surprises.

In her right hand, the graying woman expertly carried a tray with two cups of tea, some fresh cream, and a bowl of sugar cubes. Cradled in her left arm, in the crook of her elbow, smaller than a loaf of bread, was a small baby wrapped up tight in swaddling cloths. Fast asleep.

L stared at it, wide-eyed.

There were no babies in this orphanage. They did not accept babies and why would they? All the children in this house had proven themselves all certified geniuses but there was no such way to test a baby. How could one even begin to contemplate how to do such a thing?

It could be the maid’s, but L knew the likelihood of that was low. She was too old, really, to have recently birthed a child. And why would she even bring such a child to her place of employment?

Where the child came from really was no mystery, not for the world’s number one detective.

Watari caught L staring wide-eyed at the infant and thanked the maid, dismissing her with a somewhat terse brush off that she should go place the baby back in its bassinette immediately.

“I’m sorry, sir,” she bowed, “I know he never makes a fuss, but I just hate leaving the poor child alone in that dark room all day on his own.”

“As you should,” L cut in, before Watari could say anything. He reached out his arms. “Here, let me take him, the fresh air would be good for him.”

“Ryuzaki,” Watari sighed, rubbing at his eye tiredly. “It is too cold for an infant to be outside in this weather.”

“Nonsense,” L objected, his arms still out before him. “He is well swaddled; he will be fine for an hour. Give me the child.”

It wasn’t the first time he had held a baby, but it was the first time he had held one so small. He was a very, very small child, and at first L caught sight of little more than a tiny nose, he was so engulfed within his blankets. The teenager held the baby on his lap, propped up against his knees, and loosened the cloths around its head, pushing them down to expose face and hair. Disturbed by the movement, the child began to stir, wiggling just the slightest, and its eyes opened slowly, as if unwilling to awaken. They were fuzzy with unrecognition.

L waited for the child to cry but it did not. The boy looked up at L with eyes as dark and wide as his own though turned up just slightly at the corners in a way that was almost pixieish. They stood out even more on this child, however, as otherwise the baby was completely white. White face. White hair. L had never seen an infant with albinism, and he found himself slightly fascinated by the sight. Perhaps it was a pixie. Perhaps this was Puck reincarnated.

“What is his name?” L asked Watari, his eyes still on the child in his arms. He touched the sparse scattering of white hair. It was so thin it was like touching silken white thread.

“Near,” Watari responded, clearly exasperated by the entire situation. “His name is Near.”

“Near Lawliet?” L guessed, already enamored with this child, his son, the offspring he didn’t even realize he had wanted until he was sitting here on a beautiful autumn day holding him in his arms and feeling his warmth and smelling the baby powder on his skin.

“No,” Watari replied. L looked up at him then and saw him shaking his head sadly. L realized then that Watari had not wanted him to see this child today. Maybe never. “Just Near. He has no last name.”

L was aware of the fact that Watari gave single word names to the other children at the house, but they all had full names as well. How was it possible to even have a child with only one name? Unless this child was not registered under any government agencies. The likelihood of this being true was very high. Less paperwork, less information to track down his possible future successor, less beaucracy trying to explain how he made his living. If you never exist you never need to disappear.

L is unsure if he should feel jealous or sorry for his son.

“Every child needs a full name,” he told Watari. “Since he is my child, I will give him a name.”

“You cannot give him your last name,” Watari objected, somewhat huffily “If somebody discovered your name it would just be a short leap of deduction from there.”

“Of course not,” L agreed. “Give me a little bit. I will come up with a suitable name for my son.”

A week later, L wrote out a small birth certificate for the boy in his own messy handwriting on golden stationary, knowing it was the best he could do for his son. It was not an official government document and he would never show up in any historical records but at least it proved he existed. He handed it to Watari and told him to put it in the boy’s records.

“Nate River?” Watari asked, looking surprised over the name. “That is so….simple. I was expecting something more eccentric from you.”

“Do you remember Nate the Great?” L asked him right before he popped a bite of cheesecake into his mouth.

Watari was quiet for a moment, eyes on L, before a soft smile crossed his lips.

“That book series I used to read to you,” he remembered fondly, “The one with the boy detective. And the last name? Wherever did you come up with River?”

“You know I enjoyed _Stand by Me_. Anyway, I just liked the sound of it. And I wanted it to be an unremarkable name for a remarkable child because the best he can do for his future is to try to not stand out in a crowd.”

* * *

That proved impossible. Even at Wammy’s House, little Nate, Near, stood out from the others. For a long while he was the youngest. Then a few other children near his age were brought in, partly on L’s request to procure him some playmates. Mello, Matt, and Linda were a little older than Near but showed little interest in playing with blocks and dolls. According to Roger’s reports, Linda attempted to get close to him for the first few weeks, some sort of maternal instinct kicking in perhaps in regard to the younger child, but her attempts proved unfruitful.

Yet Near never seemed unhappy. When L visited, he would look up and smile when noticing him and L would join him on the floor for a short while, but he never asked L to join him in his play.

He never played any sort of physical games with the other children either. According to Watari, he had been four weeks premature at birth, underweight and somewhat sickly. Though he outgrew the health problems later he never quite caught up to where he should have been size-wise. He was perhaps the only child L had ever heard of that did not enjoy running and swimming. Considering his skin, that was probably for the best anyway. He could never be in the sunlight for more than perhaps a half hour at a time.

It was his intelligence that created the ever-expanding distance between L’s son and the others, however. More so than anything else, the other children were intimidated by his mind. Or, in some cases, envious of it.

He was absolutely brilliant. A true genius. More so than even L, perhaps, though that was hard to determine since he also had certain advantages in his upbringing that L lacked so it made it difficult to compare their progress at the same age.

Given his brilliance, it came as no surprise to L when Near came to him one day and asked him to confirm his conclusion. He sat on the floor at L’s feet, playing with one of his many toys, and droned on as if he were describing the events of a book and not his own life.

“I have been at Wammy’s House since I was a baby while all the others remember being brought here. You always come to find me as soon as you arrive, and you give me special treatment even though Mello is close to my age and longs for it more. You always remember my birthday and make sure to be here to give me my presents personally even though the other children usually receive theirs from Roger. My eyes are the same color as yours, we both have attached earlobes, and my jawline will probably be very similar to yours once I become a teenager. The likelihood that you are my father is over ninety-five percent.”

“Correct,” L confirmed, smiling despite himself, his thumb to his lips. He could not help himself, despite seven years of attempting to distance himself from this child he was still proud of his son. “You are my child.”

“And my mother?”

“I do not know,” L confessed. “She was chosen from a booklet of surrogates based off her IQ and language abilities. Watari has a picture of her, I believe, but her identity was to remain secret as part of the contract with the agency.”

“I suppose it is unimportant,” Near conceded, turning back to his toys. Dinosaurs today. L had liked dinosaurs as a child too. Those might even be the very same ones he had played with, if Watari had brought them with him to Wammy’s House. “I’m guessing I was conceived to be your heir?”

“Yes,” he confirmed Near’s suspicions, as content to sit there and watch his son play as the boy seemed to be. “Though only if you showed the natural talent to do so.”

“Which I do,” Near said. It wasn’t a question; it was a statement. His orange tyrannosaurus rex battled a forest green triceratops. Yes, those very well may be his old toys. Scientists know that neither of those dinosaurs looked like those figures these days. The carnivore would have had to have broken its back to stand in such a position.

“Which you do,” L agreed. Unable to resist, he joined Near on the floor and reached for a duckbilled dinosaur. “Are you upset over this fact?”

“No,” Near replied as calmly as ever. He handed L an allosaur. “Why should I be? I am the only child in this house who still has a parent. I may be the only one who was wanted. Matt’s parents were teenagers. Mello’s mother was a prostitute. Linda’s father dropped her off after her mother died of cancer. But I was wanted, and I’m still wanted, and I feel that is very special in this house.”

“You are very special,” L agreed. He set the duckbill down beside Near’s triceratops. “Just because you were created for a purpose does not mean you are not loved.”

“The royalty is also created for a purpose,” Near agreed, a true Brit to the core. “And they are loved by the entire country. It is nice to be loved.”

* * *

If anybody had told a teenage L that he would lose his virginity to his own son, he would have accused them of being insane.

If anybody had told a teenage L that he would lose his virginity to his twelve-year-old son, he would have had them executed.

The best laid plans of mice and men…

L supposes he can’t blame Near for growing up with father issues. Maybe if he had intervened early on, before A and B were destroyed by Watari’s objective, things could have gone differently. But Near had been raised in a very strange house under very strange conditions with very little interaction with the outside world.

Perhaps L should have predicted the usual societal mores would mean very little to his own son. They barely influenced L’s own decisions and he had been raised with them.

It started with a knock on his door. Two quiet little taps, not timid but patient. L knew it was Near immediately and opened the door for his son, inviting him in. He returned to his desk, pulling his legs beneath himself as usual, and turned to see what the boy wanted.

He looked…different. Not just because he had started to enter puberty but different than he had looked just that morning. After a few minutes, L realized Near had actually brushed his hair for once. It looked silky and soft and less tangled than usual, the white curls almost angelic.

Maybe a sign of adolescence, the urge to care about one’s physical appearance. Not that L had ever cared about such things, personally. But that didn’t mean Near was just like him.

Except he was still shuffling around in the same white pajamas as usual. Same white socks poking out from beneath the cuffs.

Near made himself comfortable on L’s bed, pulling his knee up to his chest as he twirled a white lock around his finger. Yes, angelic. Just a year ago L may have referred to him as cherubic but a year has changed him and today was the boy’s twelfth birthday.

“I’m not going attempt to be coy,” his son stated very matter of fact, looking directly at him “I’m here because I want to have sexual relations with you. I want you to show me how.”

Of all the things L had expected him to say that had been at the bottom of his list.

“I’ve started having nocturnal emissions,” Near added. He turned his eyes up to the ceiling, thinking to himself. “Sometimes the accompanying dreams are about Mello but usually they’re about you and I think there’s an eighty percent likelihood that I have developed a daddy complex. I have, of course, began masturbating, but I feel as if having the real thing would be greatly preferable if you do not object.”

A daddy complex. L wasn’t even thirty yet. Not even old enough for somebody’s faux-daddy complex. Near has never once referred to him by any variation of the title – daddy, dad, papa, father – nothing but Ryuzaki or very rarely L.

“You understand how inappropriate this is, I assume?” L asked, watching the boy from his seat at his computer desk. The computer was to his back and he found himself thankful to have his knees pulled up to his chest, shielding himself from this strange boy on his bed. He had never considered his stance as a form of protection before and now he realized how pathetic it was to consider the fact he’d even need protection from a boy as small and delicate as his son.

“I understand the biological and social implications of committing incest, yes,” Near confirmed. He released the lock of hair and it sprang back into place as a tight curl. He met L’s eyes with his own and L could see the determination behind them and he knew that while he could resist the boy’s advances if needed that it would be very difficult to do so and most likely painful for the both of them. “I also know that it does not matter. We cannot have children and social norms are unimportant to both of us. I believe the main issue lying in the path here is whether or not you are sexually interested in me.”

That is honestly something L never stopped to consider. Sex was not something he had shown much interest towards in general, the efforts required to procure it being worth more than the outcome but looking at his son he attempted to evaluate him through a sexual lens. Small. Pale. Delicate face. Beautiful collarbone. Skin still soft with pre-adolescence. He has never seen him without clothes on, but he could assume he would be as lithe and sweet as he appeared. He would probably cry out prettily when L entered him and claw at his back as they made love. He would be soft and warm and smell like the lavender soap he always requested L bring back to him from his visits to France.

It leaves L feelingly unusually warm.

“I believe it would be a pleasant experience for the both of us,” L concurred. “Thought I do worry about the psychological implications for you in taking part in such an act.”

“Yes, I suppose we will have to address those later,” Near admitted. His hands were already to his chest, unbuttoning his shirt. “Is it okay if I call you daddy?”

“Only when we’re in this room,” L conceded, sliding his feet onto the floor.


	2. When I Was Still Your Golden Boy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just another short drabble.

Holding Near in his arms was similar to how L imagined it would feel holding a large, pale fish fresh from the ocean. Wet, slippery, tasting of salt, and impossible to grab onto because whenever you tried it seemed to slither, leaving you with nothing but empty air in your grasp.

Except L has never felt the need to stick his dick in a fish, or any animal, fortunately.

Then again, maybe sticking his dick in his pre-teen son was no better. On a scale of incest to bestiality, where would the pointer lie for morality?

Still, how could anybody ever fault him for such a thing though? How could anybody blame him for giving in to such unnatural desires considering the circumstance? How could anybody possibly resist this beautiful, sensual creature before him as he moaned so prettily?

How could anybody even imagine Near was capable of transforming into just such a creature?

Normally, Near was an extraordinarily quiet and reserved boy. While he never saw the need to whisper, he also rarely felt the need to speak aloud at such a volume as to be heard from more than a handful of feet away. He was an expert at containing his emotions, a veteran of the stony face stare.

And he was also a wonton slut for his own father’s cock.

Or rather, his _daddy’s_ cock.

It was something like a reverse safe word between the two of them. Normally, Near would never so much as acknowledge that L was his father, especially in public spaces where anybody could stumble upon them. Even when it was the two of them, alone in L’s room, Near would only switch from calling him his pseudonym to referring to him by his proper name of L.

Except when he wanted more. When he didn’t want his mentor there beside him, working with him, but his father. His lover.

Then Near would just breathe the word so softly.

“Can you show me how to program this formula, _daddy_.”

And like that all mentoring would come to an abrupt halt and L would reach for him, already beginning to harden in his jeans. He would beg Near to say it again, to confirm he had heard correctly even as he tears open the boy’s shirt, not caring for the buttons rolling across the floor. Let the maids sew them back on. Let them not ask questions.

“Who am I?” L would demand, his hands large and sprawling across his ribs, holding him close but holding him far. Near reaching for him but his arms too short and L too strong for him to fight.

“Daddy,” Near would whine, reaching for him, wanting his own father in a way no son should ever want his father. “You’re my daddy. Please, daddy, hold me, daddy, love me, daddy.”

And despite Near’s whining L was the pathetic one in this situation. He was the one barely able to contain himself for those few moments. Every time the word spilled from between his son’s lips the hardon in his jeans throbbed and stiffened and became more painful.

Dear God, he was being Pavlov’d by his own son.

What a manipulative little shit.

What a gorgeous little cockslut.

He was so tight around him as he bounced on L’s lap, but he never lasted for long. Not because he came prematurely but because Near tired so easily and then it was L’s turn to take over, his arms going vice-tight around his son as he thrust up into him, yanking out squeals of pleasure from between his bubblegum lips. Near’s arms would go around his neck and his kisses would be sloppy and frantic. Teeth would clack against one another. Lips would bruise. Sometimes there would be blood as Near bit down too eagerly on L’s lip, too young and eager, much like a baby rattlesnake that does not know the strength of its own venom.

The chances of nobody hearing his son’s cries were almost non-existent. He was so very vocal about his pleasure, unabashedly unashamed as he was with most things in his life. He wore whatever clothes he wanted to wear, he played with whatever toys he wanted to play with, and he fucked whoever he wanted to fuck.

Sometimes, L would take him missionary style, face to face, with long, deep thrusts. Near’s hair would be sprawled out on the pillow behind him like some perverted halo and L would feel as if he were defiling an angel.

Sometimes, L would take him on his knees, jackhammering into him so fast and hard that he would leave a pseudo rugburn on the snow-white cheek, even the softest pillow harsh against his softness. The boy’s tiny fingers would grip at the bedpost, gripping onto the white-painted metal bars as desperately as a death row inmate, crying out to God above.

And sometimes, like now, he would take him on his lap.

Near seemed to like being on his lap best. Perhaps because he liked feeling tall, equal to L’s height in this position. Perhaps because he enjoyed kissing so very much and he had full control over this act from such a position. Maybe it was just the physical pleasure itself. Maybe this was simply the angle where L’s cock hit his young prostate at just the right spot to turn him into a melted pile of whipped cream on his lap.

Whatever it was, Near would often initiate penetration so that he had control over such position. He was so small that L could have resisted the way the boy shoved him onto the bed, he could have grabbed him by his delicate, bony wrists, flipped them over, taken him face to face. But by then his brain had usually turned to mush and Near was already sliding down onto him with little more than a spoonful of hand lotion for lubricant and he was already so open and wet that L always knew he had readied himself before entering the room.

Nothing was spontaneous with his son. Near was calculating, determined, and he always got what he wanted.

Luckily for L, what Near wanted was usually what L wanted. Even if the boy’s arms were often too tight around his neck, choking him, leaving him light-headed. Even if he did sometimes dig his nails a little too deep into the skin of L’s shoulders and drag down, leaving bloody streaks of flesh. The breathless, pain-laced orgasms were mind-blowing, leaving L sprawled out on his bed as boneless as a jellyfish.

He knows he should address the obvious issue here. Not simply that the boy is underage as many young boys are known to be curious and ambitious when it comes to sex. But the fact that they share blood. And the sexual magnetism between them does not power through in spite of this connection but because of it. Near wants him precisely because he is his father.

There is no getting around that. When Near gets on his hands and knees before him he nuzzles his father’s erection as softly and sweetly as if it were a beloved pet. When he takes him deep in his mouth, swallowing him down completely as if it were a simple feat, he is aware that it is his father’s penis in his mouth. When he swallows the ejaculate and then smiles that knowing smile as if it were his favorite tasty treat, he is clearly reveling in the fact of what it is that is now in his lithe little belly. He licks him clean afterwards as fastidiously as a cat licks up its milk and says softly, voice harsh from having a hard cock down his throat, “Have to make sure none of my brothers and sisters get left behind, don’t I?” Then he cradles and rubs L’s sensitive testes as if he were touching something precious to him.

Occasionally, he makes a joke. Claims he’s just checking in on the status of his former apartment, even though he had only inhabited the old place for a couple weeks.

He is entirely irreverent and unbelievably perverse. No twelve-year-old boy, let alone one with the face of an angel, should have a mind so filthy.

But it is so beyond filthy that L knows if he were to crack open the boy’s skull sewage and waste would just pour from the wound like liquid manure. And he pulls his son up to kiss him, the taste of his own semen in his son’s mouth, sticky and stinking of chlorine.

There were no such kisses today, however. It has been too long and Near was too desperate and he does his best to keep up with L’s movement though his legs tremble beneath him as weakly as those of a newborn fawn. The word is a mantra on his lips today and he repeats it as religiously and relentlessly as if he were reciting an endless barrage of Hail Marys for his sins.

“Daddy, daddy, I love you daddy, I love your cock, daddy, fuck me daddy, love me daddy, fuck me with your big, throbbing dick daddy, daddy, daddy, daddy…”

L does his best to reciprocate the term of endearment but there is no easy way to do so. Son feels too forced. Child too priestly, as if fucking a pre-teen boy did not already reek of Catholicism. He calls him baby, then baby boy, but it is not the same and he knows it. So, he kisses him instead and tells him, “Daddy loves you so much.”

Near is beginning to look more like himself every day. Smaller than L was at this age, he’ll probably never reach L’s height, and his face has more softness than L’s did at that age. But still, he can’t help but see part of himself as he watches Near clench his eyes shut and breathe and move and whine. He can’t help but think watching Near’s sex face must be eerily similar to watching his own sex face. And that thought is rather narcistic of him because Near’s sex face is the most glorious thing L has ever seen.

But then L cannot see it anymore because Near has buried his face in his throat and he’s sobbing, his face wet against L’s skin, though L does not know if the wetness is tears or sweat or his own or Near’s. He is sobbing, loudly, but it is a good sob, and L grabs him by the back of the head, entwining his fingers into the sweaty white curls, gushing all the while about how good he feels on his daddy’s cock and how much his daddy loves his tight fuckhole. Near whines in his ear how fucking good it feels and how close he is, and he clenches somehow even tighter around L’s dick and L knows he wants him to touch his cock. Near will never touch his own cock during sex, relying on his daddy to take care of him.

L leaves him to suffer for another minute or two and Near begins to resist, pushing back against his shoulders, fighting against the hands around his waist, trying to still the movement, but L will have none of it. At this moment Near is his son and his lover and his own personal fuck toy just made for him to drive his hard cock into over and over and over again, deeper and harder and faster. Near’s face is no longer in his throat, he’s leaning back, leaning away from his father, as if trying to escape, and his moans and whines are so fucking loud that there is no way the entire damn house isn’t hearing L plowing his own son. And he doesn’t care. If anything, he’s proud of that fact. Let everybody in this orphanage know how beautiful his son sounds as he is being fucked. Let them listen to him and envy him knowing that this boy is for him and him alone, made of his very DNA, binding them for eternity.

He finally curls his fingers around Near’s little erection though it is not as little as it used to be, and the boy thrusts up, desperately, wanting more friction. He’s so wet with sweat that there’s little resistance left, and L has to tighten his grip to create more, to give the boy more than the feeling of sticking his dick in an over-steeped sponge.

L watches his face the entire time, imprinting the image in his mind for eternity. Then Near’s arms are tight around his neck again and his entire body is rigid, every muscle flexed so tight that it will leave him sore when he finally releases.

Near is usually cold and stony faced and silent. Right now, now he is hot and beautiful and screaming. His seed coats L’s hand and he waits for the boy to breathe and go limp before bringing his fingers to Near’s mouth, slipping them between the tired, panting lips, and the boy sucks at them without complaint. Grips at L’s wrist when he tries to pull away before he finishes.

Lapping up the grandchildren that L could have had.

Afterwards, he is too tired and spent to sit up any longer and he lets himself fall onto the bed. L adjusts his legs, uncrosses them and spreads them, and makes himself comfortable between them. He is close and it doesn’t take long, which is a good thing because Near is overly sensitive now and squirms beneath him, his fingers curled up into tight little fists at his sides. Until he senses L is also about to cum because then his arms go around and he pulls L to his chest. There are no dragging nails now though. He holds L as tenderly to him as if he were the parent and L were the child and just holds him there, taking it, taking his father’s load inside of him as greedily as a child does anything else.

Near simply cannot stand the idea of L’s semen being wasted on the sheets.


End file.
